


This Drumbeat (Louder and Louder)

by Trixen



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-06 18:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6765667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After pictures show up online of Cait at the Ferragamo dinner, Sam flies to New York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_As I move my feet towards your body_  
I can hear this beat it fills my head up  
And gets louder and louder

 

_Louder than sirens_  
Louder than bells  
Sweeter than heaven  
And hotter than hell

\- Florence + the Machine

 

He texts her when she is slicing an avocado. The knife almost slips, almost spills ruby red blood. Cait curses just once, and then twice for good measure because who is she kidding.

 

Her toast is burning. 

 

And still, she picks up her phone. She knows full well who it is on the other end of this tenuous connection. Sometimes, when he calls her as he's getting on a flight or starting an interview or any time that he's nervous, uncertain, frightened - she imagines she can hear the other conversations balanced along either side of theirs. Like little stars or diamonds, glimmering in the darkness. Thousands upon thousands of breaths, whispers, exhalations, inhalations, migrations.

 

_On my way to big apple. Drink tonite balfe? x_

 

She mashes avocado onto her mahogany toast, squirts sriracha over it in generous measures because she's reading that new Gwyneth cookbook and she apparently swears by the stuff. Of course, Gwyneth had suggested (ordered) making your own, an idea that is as foreign to Caitriona at the moment as the hot blue skies of Los Angeles. Here in gloomy New York, with its slushy puddles and wellies, the sriracha is best coming from a bottle. She doesn't even have time to think lately, a good thing really, and the effort of crushing chilies and marinating garlic seems like it might be beyond her capabilities.

 

In truth, she's so exhausted that her eyes are bruises. Even her hair looks defeated. Without curls, it hangs (slightly frizzy) to her shoulders in an sad imitation of her old mane of dark fire. Cait doesn't kid herself after all. Her looks are still important. That's why she's eating avocado and not a plate of chips with vinegar and madras curry sauce (something she'd picked up in Wales and never looked back - the Welsh knew their chips and curry sauce) and her mouth is watering now, goddammit. 

 

Cait ignores Sam's text for the moment. Instead, she taps a quick message.

 

_Fucked T last night. Mistake?_

 

Donal is quick back.  _for the love of fuck._

 

_Needed a date._

 

_could've called me love bug._

 

_A straight date_

 

_ah, that unicorn._

 

She laughs, a strange sound in the hush of her rental. It mingles with the faint clang of sirens outside. Takes a bite of her toast. The spice stabs her straight between her eyes, making them water deliciously. She texts him again.

 

_seemed like a swell idea at the time_

 

_into the wine, were you_

 

She doesn't dignify that, although to be fair, she  _had_ been quite squiffy by the time they'd tottered back and he'd touched her back, good man was Tony, so nice and interesting and he's always reminded her of an artist from bygone days, maybe a beat poet or a romantic, penning music and words, paint smeared on the pads of his fingers. His hair falling across his eyelids. And oh fuck she must have been plastered. He hadn't read a poem in his life. But they'd been together for a while, and the only thing that had really broken them up was distance, so what was the harm in giving it a go? Again?

 

And why shouldn't she have a boyfriend? A plus one. Tony had been her on-and-off for ages, but why the fuck not make it more permanent. Jodie had said to her once -  _Have something of your own. Something no one else can touch. Keep it safe and separate. Make it someone you trust implicitly. Make it someone that can be your safe space._

 

Another huge bite of toast. She texts.

 

_Austere at 9, be there or be square_

 

The response comes almost immediately, and something tightens inside of her at that.  _be there. x_

 

++

 

She dresses carefully. And if Caitriona didn't pride herself on her compartmentalization skills, she might wonder at her carefulness. But she does. So she doesn't.

 

Black high-waisted pants. The kind that flare at the ankles, revealing bits of skin and shoes. She tucks a sheer white blouse in. It has pin-tuck sleeves and anyone looking closely would be able to see the tea cup shape of her breasts, her bra. Sky high heels, natch. They are as red as a robin's belly. She picks through her earrings, finally selecting waterfalls of diamonds and rubies, the kind that almost reach the winged bones of her shoulders. Her hair, she slicks back. It's hopeless really, finally rejecting her after all of its years of service at the hands of hair stylists and hot irons. 

 

Smudges her lips with a faint blush. She spends longest on her eyes. Eyeliner for days. Shadow as smoky as a forest fire, her eyes glinting from behind the mask of colour and shape. Done, ready. She picks up her clutch, stocked with cards and lipstick, wet wipes and stevia sweetened mints. She acknowledges that she feels faintly nauseated in a way she can't define. It's like the sick rush of nerves before she walks in front of a crowd, with their bird call voices and insistence.

 

The Saint Austere is in Williamsburg and Cait cabs it, unable to even fathom the walk or worse, the underground. There's something about the New York subway that scares her, although she'd rather shit bricks than admit it to anyone. 

 

Inside, its warm and glowing, the walls casting gold shadows over plates of steaming pasta and purple salads. She sees him immediately, the tug behind her breasts like a compass, directing her to a table in the back. She can see his curls and the strong line of his shoulders. He's wearing leather. His back is to her and his elbow rests on the chair beside him. A bottle of wine chills in ice, and she can see plates of food - she grimaces at the idea of eating when her belly is like a hot stone.

 

"Heughan," she murmurs in his ear, expecting (not expecting) to startle him.

 

He isn't. Startled, that is. He turns slightly and she notices immediately the reserve. He's closed some part of himself off to her. It's so subtle that no one else would see, but she does. 

 

"Balfe," he returns. Extends his hand, gesturing to the chair opposite. "Didna know what you'd fancy so ordered the lot."

 

"What's wrong?" she asks, even though she doesn't truly want to know.

 

"Why, nothing," he says and smiles. It's a reflex, nothing more. "Wine?"

 

"Always," she answers automatically. An inside joke, but he doesn't seem to hear her. The sancerre is a million years old and must have cost a fortune. She blinks and picks at a plate of Brussels sprouts for lack of anything else to do. They are divine. The wine is so cold that it hurts her throat. He takes a sip too, watching her over the rim of the glass.

 

His eyes hurt too.

 

"How was bonny Scotland?" she asks, attempting the accent in a way that normally makes him chuckle. 

 

"The way you left it, I should think," he says. "Bollocks freezing."

 

"New York's not much better."

 

"Aye." He takes a large bite of patatas bravas, and that, the sight of Sam eating _white_ potatoe _s_ of all things - it convinces her.

 

"Sam. Tell me what's up." She pauses when he says nothing. "Before I throttle you."

 

"Twas a nice dress," he returns.

 

It takes Caitriona a moment. 60 seconds of beat, beat, beat until -  _oh._ "Cost a bloody fortune too. Thank Christ it was just on loan."

 

"How was the dinner?"

 

"Tasteless."

 

"Well you looked beautiful." His voice breaks on the last word and he clears his throat roughly. "Quite proud to see you out and about. You have proper paparazzi after you Balfe."

 

"Hardly." She swallows more wine in an effort to do anything but look at him. Her glass is gone and he refills it almost to the brim. If he's trying to get her drunk, it's working. She'd eaten almost nothing after her avocado toast. The text kept drumming in her head, gathering up all of the space. Gathering up her compartments, which she usually believes are reinforced with steel. Now they feel as thin as wire, as thin as dreams.

 

"Hot date too, I see," he says. "Didna know you an' Tony were back on."

 

"Well --" she falters then, not quite sure what has changed, but knowing something has. His accent always thickens when he's upset or happy or -- and she wonders if there is a line somewhere here, that they are crossing. Like explorers mapping their course, setting sail or taking flight or cutting through the first tangle of jungle. "Sort of. I mean, it never really..."

 

"That's news," Sam smiles and eats more potatoes. His teeth flash in the dim light. She can see the pink of his gums, of his tongue. "You holdin' out on me, Balfe?"

 

"It's a recent thing." She curses her own in-eloquence and thinks fuck it, eating some potatoes herself. They are as fiery as her toast this morning, silky and comforting. The taste of home, of dinners made by her Mama, of the days when carbs were not in her vocabulary. "You did see 'em at the premiere if you remember."

 

"Oh I remember. Thought he was there as a mate."

 

"He was." She's sweating slightly beneath her arms and breasts. "I'm not exactly sure myself what's happening. But don't you ever--" she stops suddenly and tries again. "It gets lonely, don't you think?"

 

"Aye, I do." His voice is low. His jaw is shadowed with stubble. It's the colour of burnished pennies and she is unraveling, she can feel it. 

 

  
_Buck the fuck up, Balfe_ she thinks and downs the rest of her wine in one gulp. 

 

"Thirsty?" 

 

Why does it feel as if he is baiting her? She's never known him like this. Almost... _angry_. That's it. He seems to be in a rage so quiet that it thrums just beneath the surface. Like a river she could drown in if she strayed too close to its banks. But one thing Caitriona has never done is stray. She knows better, always has.

 

When other models were getting dangerously drunk on champagne and giving blowjobs in dressing rooms, she drank water and counted calories religiously. When the option came up, she committed to acting classes with a fervor that surprised even the teacher. When she got Outlander, she knew - this was  _it._ She could be Claire. She could rise above others expectations and not let anything touch this sacred opportunity. This  _chance._

 

"More please." She hands over her glass.

 

He looks at her through lowered lids. His lashes cast dark shadows over his cheeks. "More wine? Or..."

 

She blushes then, hot and sure. Cait grimaces. How humiliating. It isn't as if they don't flirt. They have so many times it's like a comedy routine. But this feels so -- _predatory._  She is reminded of Neruda, of

 

his puma, hunting the hot heart

 

of the words _I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair._  
_Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets._

 

Oh. She is prim with him, flippant. "Wine, Heughan. Your wife is in desperate need of a good night out."

 

He blinks at her, slow. Fills her glass. The bottle is emptying quickly. "But yer not my wife, are ye lassie."

 

Any other time she would laugh at his wicked impression of Jamie, of her bold and gallant Scot, but again - there is something eddying at his words, little waves that could become tsunamis with enough encouragement. So she doesn't giggle - she doesn't want to anyway - and picks up a grilled prawn. It is soaked with lemony butter and herbs. 

 

"Prawn?" she asks and he opens his mouth.

 

Oh,  _fuck._ She's fed him bites before, but not  _this_ Sam. Not this stranger. Cait wrinkles her nose, attempting to be cute. "It's messy."

 

"I like messy."

 

Without knowing, without thought, she holds out the shrimp, presses it between his lips. He bites down and the butter shines his mouth. She takes the other half, eating it with nothing more than hot blankness. An absence of anything but the feeling of knowing his mouth had touched what she was now swallowing. Ridiculous. He's sucked on her nipples in front of dozens of cameramen. She's felt his erection during sex scenes. They've even laughed about it. It's common, after all - to get excited, to not be able to fight the natural response. 

 

So, why. Why and what. Desperately, she seizes on another topic of conversation. Anything. "Plans for tomorrow?"

 

"Might get a work out in," he says, and licks the butter off his lower lip. "Fancy comin' with me?"

 

"You know I can't stand all the grunting and sweat," she jokes. "But you're welcome to join me at Pilates."

 

"And Tony wouldn't have an issue with that, I take it?"

 

"Oh no," she waves her hand. "He knows there's nothing -- well. Y'know. Between us. He knows it's just work."

 

"Right." He stands suddenly. "Think I'll settle up."

 

"But--" she's startled and looks up at him. "We just--"

 

"Won't be half a sec."

 

Cait spends the time he's at the bar silently hyperventilating in a way she's not accustomed to. Who is this person? Who is this man that she thought she could count on never to--? Is he -- is it like it was when he first got to Los Angeles and didn't contact her for months. When he was photographed with every blonde girl on the West Coast? How strained things were at that Burberry party - she can still remember how she'd felt irrationally furious. Felt like freezing him out. How he'd treated her with a faux joviality that drove her absolutely bonkers.

 

But what she's most afraid of, what she doesn't even want to put under the spotlight - is that something is breaking open. Something that has been locked up tightly. Something she's sworn never to touch or jostle, lest it shatter.

 

When he comes back to the table, he's backlit against the glow of the room and his eyes are so dark she can't fathom his expression. But he holds out his hand to her and his voice is ever so slightly hoarse, as if the words sting.

 

"C'mon Balfe. I'll buy some more plonk and you can show me your place."

 

"It's a rental," she says automatically, standing and taking his hand. His palm is warm and large, easily holding her fingers. 

 

"No arguing. Let's go Caitriona."

 


	2. Chapter 2

She says she has wine at her place and so they search for a cab. Fat droplets of rain fall like diamonds onto his leather jacket and she begins to wonder if wearing a sheer white top on a blustery evening was really the right idea. 

 

“Feels just like home, eh?” she jokes.

 

He regards her like she’s a stranger. Just for a second, but it’s there, and it pinpricks straight to the hot place where her stomach used to be. His eyebrow quirks. “Aye, does that. But I would’ve thought New York was your home now Cait. You’re all settled up. Mates, man—"

 

She cuts him off, tries for humour. “Do you have a problem with Tony, Mr. Heughan? I always thought you quite liked him."

 

“Liked him?” he echoes. 

 

“Well, yes.” She’s faltering now, trying to establish where and when things went so awry. “At the premiere you—"

 

“He was your mate,” Sam replies.

 

He moves in the rain like he was born in it. Which, she supposes, he was. A Scottish boy, through and through. At home with the wilds of nature and the clamour of the city. It’s her that stumbles into puddles and once had to be rescued from a grassy verge when her heels got stuck in what she hoped fervently was mud. He’d immediately instagrammed a photo of her boots, flush with happiness, and she hadn’t been able to stop laughing. It had been such a magical, innocent night. Chaste in a way she’d never experienced before or since. Just the velvet sky above them, the valleys below them and the smells of sheep, heather and woodsmoke from faraway fires.

 

Everything had felt like it was _beginning._  


And it had just been the two of them, leaping into that unknown.

 

“Where are you, Balfe?"

 

Caitriona starts, opening her eyes to find him watching her closely. It’s too dark to see into his eyes properly, but she can feel the tension emanating from his body. It vibrates through her like electricity. As if she’s a power line in a storm, buffeting.

 

She shrugs. “Just woolgathering."

 

“Naw, I dinna think so-“ his accent thickens and he cups her chin, turning her face towards him. Although he’s touched her thousands of times before, it’s as if his fingers are hotter - more _present._ She feels the strength in them - in him - the calluses from hours of sword fighting, working out, pushing himself. As he always does. Toward what, she’s not sure. “Ah, here’s a cab now."

 

She has to shake herself for one split second. Shake off the moment and his touch. Shake off what she had thought he might say - or do.

 

But isn’t that what she’d been doing since this all began? Those compartments, threatening to spill over.

 

+

Thank Christ she’d cleaned up after he-who-shall-not-be-named had left. Cait can laugh at herself a bit. It's clear Sam doesn't like Tony AT ALL despite her thoughts to the contrary and she can't unpack that at the moment, but she guesses that he wouldn’t appreciate tumblers of leftover gin and lipstick stained wine glasses left on the coffee table.

 

To be truthful, it had been a non-event. Now that she looks back, without the haze of alcohol or the wicked hangover that even Gwyneth approved Sriracha avocado toast couldn’t cure. She hadn’t even come, and he’d taken _ages_ , to the point where Cait had considered giving up. Her wrist had started to cramp. His attempts to go down on her were just _not_. At the time, she’d chalked it up to the fact that she was drunkity drunk drunk, but now — well, now, _what_?

 

She throws her keys on the table by the door and sweeps her hand in a way that she even finds a bit overdone. But fuck, this is awkward for no apparent reason. “Welcome, sir. Vino?"

 

“Always,” he echoes and she smiles, kicking off her heels and padding through to the kitchen. 

 

“Red, white?"

 

“Red, I think,” he replies, walking around the room, touching things and picking them up. Putting them back down again. Her books. Her glasses. Scripts. He is careful as he does it. Almost reverent, and her throat clutches a bit.

 

She pours large glasses of pinot noir and joins him on the cream plushiness of the couch, tucking her legs up underneath her. Reaching behind her head, she pulls free the tight knot she’d put her hair in, letting it fall to her shoulders. She knows Sam is watching her.

 

He raises his glass and then pauses. Clears his throat. His hair is a bit damp and curling wildly. “Never have I ever—“ he raises his eyebrow and smirks. “Lied in an interview."

 

She giggles. Drinks. He drinks too. Oh Christ, please let this be a bridge back to the place where he isn't angry at her for fuck knows what. She raises her glass too and thinks for a moment. “Never have I ever disagreed with one of Ron’s editing choices."

 

They both drink. So many cut scenes lie in their memories. Like little deaths and grievances. They both share a deep appreciation for the source material and for Jamie and Claire. Small wonder they often bemoan the choices of the editing staff. Best left unsaid, but it’s there, and she knows they both feel it keenly.

 

He leans back on the couch and takes his jacket off. He’s wearing a simple white t-shirt. It strains against the muscles of his shoulders and arms. He regards her seriously. “Never have I ever — slept with someone I didn’t love."

 

“Oh please,” she cackles and they both drink.

 

Cait grins at him. “Never have I ever fucked a girl who just wanted fame."

 

He lowers his brows. “Burn, Balfe.” He drinks. “Never have I ever pretended that I wasn’t in a relationship when I was."

 

Ouch. Cait takes a large gulp of wine, noticing he isn’t drinking and of course, because none of his little flings were _relationships_ were they. Just silly girls, with silly aspirations. And why should she not have lied about Tony? It was so new, so precious. At that time, at least. She’d seen the blurry photos at the tennis match and the Twitter blowback for fuck’s sake, and what was she supposed to do? Accept it as a matter of course? Couldn’t she have a safe space? Couldn’t she have _something_ that wasn’t dissected or picked apart?

 

Cait considers. “Never have I ever wanted to eat potatoes desperately and restricted myself due to some sort of cult-like diet."

 

He laughs out loud. Drinks the rest of his glass in one fell swoop. “You’re not gonna cop to restricting carbs, Miss Cait?"

 

She laughs too, pours more wine. “Not because I'm a member of a box, or whatever sexual name those clubs have."

 

Sam chucks her chin playfully and taps his own, pretending to think. “Never have I ever not eaten gluten because I’m a former model and we just don’t _do_ that sort of thing."

 

More giggles. Oh my, she’s getting squiffy and that isn’t the right idea tonight. But she can’t help herself. This reminds her of so many whiskey nights, getting plastered with the boys. “Never have I ever looked at myself so much in the mirror that the mirror begs to be freed from its torment."

 

“Lookin like that, you’re telling me you don’t enjoy mirrors, Balfe?"

 

Cait flushes again. Hot pink in her cheeks and good god, this is embarrassing. “I… I put eyeliner on tonight."

 

“Eyeliner and a see-through top,” he says low.

 

“That goes without saying."

 

“So it does. Let me see… never have I ever fucked someone for the sake of it."

 

“Is that referring to last night?"

 

“I didna know it all happened then."

 

“Well— it was mostly a non-starter to be honest."

 

He drinks anyway. So does she. But he looks at her over the rim of the wine glass. “Naught special about it then?"

 

She shrugs, embarrassed. “Just drunken fumbling. Would’ve been better off with a book or my vibrator, really.” _WHAT THE FUCK BALFE, SHUT UP._ Her inner voice starts up at a shout, and she’s blushing and so is he, but he’s smiling too, and she relaxes. He gets it. He’s always been her friend and confidant.

 

And then. “Or perhaps with someone who kens what he’s doing."

 

“Very funny, ha ha,” Cait says dryly, but her whole body is clenching and it’s as if hot branches have gone from her nipples straight to her pussy. She can actually chart her body’s response to his words. Apparently its not as discerning as she would like it to be. 

 

“Is it?” Sam puts his wine glass down, clears his throat. He picks it up again. “Actually - one more. Never have I ever been in love with someone I’ve worked with."

 

It takes her a moment. Of course it does. She’s not very bright when it comes to matters of the heart. But when it hits her, it hits her. Straight in the belly, like a sweet punch. She palms her glass and looks at him. Drinks.

 

He doesn’t.

 

“Sam—“ she whispers.

 

He puts the glass down. Stands. Sam rakes his hands through his hair and paces down to the kitchen counter. The whole line of his back is taut. He turns around and she inadvertently rears back at the sight of his eyes. They are burning. 

 

“Caitriona,” he says. Just her name, but it snatches everything in her and scatters it. He clenches his fists and looks her straight in her eyes. “I’m in love with you."


	3. Chapter 3

She laughs. It is involuntary and she regrets it the moment it spills from her mouth, like the peal of wind chimes. She looks at him beseechingly. "I'm sorry. Oh my God, I'm sorry. I was just so-- I'm so surprised is all..."

 

His eyes blaze. "Surprised? How can you be? How can you not have known?"

 

"I--" Cait pauses and takes a much needed swig of wine. It's like a lick of fire down to her belly. "I didn't know you... liked me that way."

 

" _Like_ you?" Sam gives her a look like perhaps she is stupid, and he wouldn't be far off the mark, Cait thinks. "I don't _like_ you, Caitriona. Well, I do of course - but." He begins to walk toward the couch. "I'm in love with you. Ardently. Passionately. You can pretend you didna know, but I won't believe you. Not for a moment."

 

She feels dizzy. "I didn't know. I'm  _not_ lying."

 

"It doesna matter at any rate," he says. “Though I ken when you’re lying and this is one of those times. You noticed how — how jealous I was over that dickhead-"

 

“Tony?"

 

“Yes. _That_ dickhead. To be fair, I’d find anyone you were dating to be an arsehole but that guy--” He smirks a bit but she can tell he’s agitated in a way his fists clench and his jaw twitches. “When I saw those pictures…” 

 

“The Ferragamo party?"

 

“Aye. I felt like…” Sam stops and starts, like a record player skipping over music it can’t bear to play. “I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Suddenly I— I realized that waiting wasn’t doing any good. You were never going to see me the way I so hoped you would."

 

“See you?” she echoes, her throat stinging with tears. “I _do_ see you, Sam. You’re my best friend. You know I—"

 

“Your friend.” His voice is flat. “I dinna want to be your _friend,_ Caitriona. At least not just your friend. You see me like I’m a kid, like a foolish teenager and I’m so bloody sick of it. I ken what you believe but you’re not seeing what’s right in front of you."

 

Cait stands, suddenly desperate to get away from the way he is looking at her. She walks to the kitchen counter, leans her arms on it. Ducking her head, she whispers. "I can't, you know that."

 

"I do, do I?"

 

"Yes - Sam, you must see what a mistake this is. You're just... you're transferring Jamie's feelings for Claire to--"

 

He laughs. "Give me some credit for a little sense, Balfe. Of course I'm not bloody transferring or whatever you just said. That's complete shit, and you know it."

 

She does know it, and the fact that he saw through her so easily is disconcerting and makes her feel as if she's on a roller coaster, staring down the drop. No safety nets. No compartments. Nothing to hold her bones together, hold in her heart. It's braying wildly in her chest, such a traitorous thing.  _Oh God oh God oh God_ she knows without knowing that this will change everything in a way that won't allow them to ever go back. 

 

"I don't--" it hurts to even think these words, let alone say them, but she bites them off anyway. Bitter pips, stinging her teeth. "I don't love you, Sam."

 

His palms touch her bare elbows and she vibrates with it, thrumming all over in a sudden hail of sensation. It's almost too much and she nips her lower lip to keep from moaning out loud. He grasps her lightly and says against her ear. "Look me in the eyes and say that. Give me that courtesy and I'll go. I willna ever mention it again, Cait. I promise."

 

She shudders in a breath. Turns. Looks in her eyes. And she's lost. She knew she would be. They are what fairytales called _drowning eyes._ To look into them is to vanish. To submerge. To be  _consumed._  


 

The pad of his thumb brushes her lower lip. "You're bleeding, Caitriona."

 

"I bit it," she whispers.

 

He smiles down at her. "You did that. Did a right good job of it too."

 

"Sam..." it's just a breath, his name. But it feels as if it's drumming through her mind. "What do you want from me?"

 

His mouth quirks. "Would everything be too much to ask for?"

 

"I can't--"

 

"Just say it, Cait."

 

"I--" she's fumbling now. Staring into those bedroom eyes. His hand touches her cheek. The heat from it is like a brand and she makes a noise, incoherent, brash, all feeling and no thought.

 

And he's still talking to her, his voice rough and thick. "Tell me ye don't want me, Cait."

 

Then he does it. He leans down slightly and slowly, carefully, licks the blood from her lip. Her iron control, that has seen her through endless empty relationships, champagne-less modeling days, calorie counting until the gap between her thighs was as wide as the Grand Canyon, all of that -- all of those useful compartments and justifications and  _this won't work because_ \-- it comes crashing down, down, down. She grabs the back of his neck, where his hair is so soft and she often longs to bury her face but never does  _because it would never work_ \- she pulls him down to her. To her mouth.

 

He groans as their lips touch. It's such an erotic sound that Caitriona feels as if she could climb out of her skin and it still wouldn't be enough to assuage this  _ache._ Grappling with his t-shirt, she presses herself up and into him, desperate. He has one hand wound in her hair, holding most of it in a fist at her nape, and the other on her ass, pushing and pulling her against his cock. She can feel it through his jeans, the heat of it, the pulse.

 

He tastes like wine and he's kissing her like he's hungry, like he can't get enough, couldn't ever get enough. It's dizzying and she sways a bit in his arms. With one hand, he lifts her up and places her on the counter. “Spread your legs, Caitriona,” he groans against her lips and she does, how could she not. His palms come up and under her delicate top, skimming it over her head. She feels a moment of disbelief. He's seen her naked so many times but never like this. Never in the hush of an apartment, just the two of them, the only sounds their ragged breaths and sighs.

 

"I want to see ye," he murmurs, his voice almost unrecognizable - changed by desire. He tugs off her bra and traces his fingers over her breasts. She gasps out a moan as the calluses on his thumbs catch her nipples. It is so different as Sam and Caitriona, so very, very different. "Take off my shirt, Cait."

 

She does, and he immediately gathers her in his arms so that her breasts are rasped by the fine hair on his chest. She whimpers against the onslaught of kisses, his tongue against her teeth, the feel of his back underneath her hands, the ripples of muscle, of bone, of hot skin. He feels feverish. His hands run up and down her back, measuring her, shaping her, feeling every inch of her. From the tips of her winged collarbones to the bowl curve of her lower back, the fine bones of her elbows and the sides of her breasts.

 

Stepping back abruptly, Sam runs his hand through his hair and stares at her for a moment. Her mouth feels bruised, swollen. His looks the same. He shakes his head, as if he's trying to control himself, but can't. "I need--" he reaches out and presses his palm flat against her belly. Everything in her tightens. "I need to taste you, Cait. I've-- I've thought about it so many times, imagined all the things I'd do to you."

 

He unzips her pants, eases them off her legs. "Christ, you're not wearing--"

 

"Unsightly panty lines, Heughan," she returns, with shaky laughter. "Us models know these things."

 

The nervous giggles disappear when he traces his finger from the wetness between her legs to her clit. Smearing her own desire over her. His eyes are almost black and she can’t help the moans that escape from her throat. His fingers are careful, assured, confident. One of his palms cups her ass, bringing her onto him as he grinds the heel of his hand against her clit while his fingers fuck her. He dips his head down, licks over one of her nipples, murmuring into her skin. “I want my face against your cunt, Cait. I’ve thought of little else since I met you."

 

“God—“ she gasps out, head falling back, elbows against the countertop her only purchase.

 

Sam drops to his knees and she can only stare down in a daze, watching him nuzzle into her, _smelling_ her. He’s making sounds that reverberate through her body, _hungry_ sounds, famished sounds. He takes his time, and she suddenly realizes what he meant - how he thought she believed he was a teenager, a kid, someone who rushed into everything and took no heed - and he was right and oh Christ, how wrong she’s been. He slowly, slowly, drags his tongue down her pussy, drawing it over her clit every few moments, making her want to beg. Beg and beg, _please fuck me please_ and she pulls at his hair, that gorgeous hair, grasping it, hoping it hurts.

 

His hiss suddenly tells her she’s hit the mark, but he just smiles, and closes his mouth over her.

 

Cait is sure she sees lightning in that moment. The wet pull of his mouth on her clit, as he takes her entire pussy between his lips and sucks on it, making sure she’s engorged with blood, plump and swollen, every inch of her ready and desperate. 

 

“Oh—oh—“ and then she’s coming, quicker than she ever has in her life, coming around his fingers and his mouth, the hot mouth that’s played a role in her fantasies since they first said hello - and the reality of it, of this moment, of the wet rush of her orgasm, it fells her completely and tears spark behind her eyes.

 

Sam takes her in his arms, kissing her tears as if he had already known they would be there. He lifts her up so she’s straddling him, and she realizes she’s completely naked and he’s still wearing his pants. His belt buckle presses against her clit and that’s all it takes. She kisses him hungrily, tasting him and herself. 

 

“I love ye so much,” he breathes against her mouth, tunnelling his hands through her hair for a moment. Then he lifts her. “Where’s—"

 

“That-that way over there somewhere."

 

“Clear as crystal, Balfe,” he teases and makes his way, finding the bedroom with his natural sense of bloody direction. Caitriona knows she would have been lost for days. A thought comes unbidden, that she’s glad she and Tony stuck to the couch. That she can’t believe what she almost committed herself to again. That this is the strangest night she can recall in recent memory. 

 

That she feels… incandescent. 

 

He tumbles her onto the bed and she laughs up at him. “Pants off, Heughan."

 

“So bossy,” he mutters, kissing her again.

 

“You have no idea."

 

“I have _some_ idea."

 

“So amusing,” she says, fumbling with his belt. “But I need you to fuck me now."

 

He stills, closing his eyes. “Ye have no idea how long I’ve waited for you to say that, Caitriona."

 

She reaches up, touches his face. He looks at her and turns, kissing her palm. “I have _some_ idea,” she imitates him and then sobers, her voice breaking slightly. “I’ve— I’ve wanted this too. For a long time."

 

He says nothing then, just strips off his pants and boxer briefs. Of course after long scenes and blown up shirts and modesty patches, she had an inkling— but the sight of him still surprises her, the long length pulsing against his belly, purple at the tip with blood, a bit wet and salty. Her mouth waters and she holds out her arms. “Why did I wait so long?"

 

“I’ve no idea,” he smiles, his his eyes are shining and it hits her with the strength of a freight train at full speed that he _loves_ her and has for years and everything that has been and will be just comes down to that. He loves her and he’s waited for her. Why, she doesn’t know, but it’s true and she feels it inside, in the pink and secret places that no one can ever see, down to her very marrow, that he is true to his word. 

 

How could she have been so blind? 

 

“Come here,” she whispers huskily and rolls him onto his side. Her fingers explore him, down to his belly, the strength of his thighs, the veins of his forearms, and when she finally grasps his cock with her palm, curling her fingers around the head, he gasps out a breath and his head falls back. 

 

Cait dips down, swiping her tongue along the tip of his cock. Knowing that he’s hurting, she sucks him down in one pull, tasting salt and skin. He yanks at her hair, fisting it and fucking up into her mouth. Cait groans into him. At the sound, he rears up, grabbing her and kissing her deep, his tongue sweeping along hers and tasting them both.

 

He pulls her down on top of him and she can feel his cock between her legs. His hands are on her ass and their mouths are fused. She has her fingers in his hair and she can smell the rain, smell their bodies, and then he smacks her ass, hot and quick. Cait whimpers, biting his lip. He smacks her again and the throb is delicious. She wriggles against him, wanting him inside of her in a way she’s never experienced before. So much of this feels new and raw and messy and it has her squirming against his body, trying to find a way in.

 

“Impatient, Miss Cait?” he asks against her lips.

 

“Fuck me,” she says, beyond teasing.

 

Sam’s eyes blacken, and he flips her over in one movement. His palm moves against her belly, pulling her up to her knees. Cait rests her cheek on her elbows, panting. She can hear him licking his finger and then he’s pressing it into her ass even as he pushes inside of her. They both groan and she feels him, thick and hot, filling her to the point of pleasure-pain. 

 

“God, you look—“ he breaks off, fucking her with his finger and his cock, slow at first, drawing in and out, letting her pussy suck him back. The sound of his balls slapping against her, of their bodies meeting and parting, of his slick finger inside of her, wet with his saliva. 

 

Sam’s other hand reaches around and palms her pussy, grinding down on it. Cait moans into her arms, restless. She’s not sure if she’ll be able to come again in this position and she wants to tell him, but it all feels so fucking good. His touches are light at first, teasing and then hard, his palm meeting her clit and then falling away. His finger inside of her is gentle, then rough, and his cock drives in a deep and steady rhythm, slowing pushing her into the mattress.

 

“Sam—“ she gasps out and he bends briefly, tonguing her mouth.

 

“Is this good, Cait? Do ye like me fucking you?"

 

“God, yes."

 

“Do ye like my cock inside of you?"

 

“Sam…"

 

“Ye should see what ye look like right now. So open for me— taking every part of me—"

 

His palm speeds up on her clit and the pulls of his cock inside of her are so insistent, so confident, she feels herself break apart, the orgasm branching from her cunt to her nipples and back again, roaring through her so that her vision goes black and she clenches around him to the point of pain. Sam grunts at the feeling and begins to fuck her hard, his cock spearing her to the bed, his hands gripping her waist in punishment.

 

When he comes, she looks back in her own bewildered, dreamy state, watching his face, and feeling the second that he loses control, his body slamming down on hers and his cock driving into her in short, deep thrusts that convey his desperation to come inside of her. 

 

Many moments later, he draws her into his arms, curling himself around her in sticky contentment. Cait isn’t sure she knows her own name, but she knows his, and the feel of him against her is like finding a home she hadn’t even known existed until now.

 

“Cait,” he whispers. “Fuck, that was…"

 

She giggles. “I know. I mean, I didn’t even guess—"

 

“I did."

 

“That you did.” She pauses. “How long?"

 

“Forever.” He lifts her hand and kisses her fingertips. “Or it feels like it."

 

“Oh.” She looks up, curls into the hollow of his shoulder. “I lied, you know. I do."

 

Sam’s voice is thick and he presses a kiss to her forehead, drawing the covers up around them in the darkness of the bedroom. “Aye, I know Cait. I know ye do, _mo ghraidh_ ” and she smiles through sleepy tears, remembering that panel, remembering his shy smile--

 

knowing now what he meant all that time ago. His message to her, should she be brave enough to hear it.

 

_Mo Ghraidh. It means, my love._


End file.
